Detego Detectum
by Madame Yoda
Summary: Hayffie. Haymitch discovers that Effie is not who he thought she was. Don't own the characters, sigh. Rated M, Torture
1. Chapter 1

Detego Detectum

Chapter 1

Intrusions

The click of a gate signaled the morning gathering... breakfast. Twenty-three heads tilted on long, graceful necks to listen as corn mix filled the hopper with a soft "hisssss".

Haymitch watched the geese as they waddled, one by one, through the fog that hid their coop, toward the feeder in the middle of the pen. It was a damp autumn morning, and he pulled the collar of his jacket closed against the chill.

The flock grew more animated, darting and pecking at one another and jockeying for a space to feed. The undulating motion of their heavy bodies and the impatient snapping of their bills conjured up a grotesque, but strangely amusing, image of ballet-dancing hippos from an animated film he'd seen as a child. He turned with a scowl back toward the gate.

_Vapid, ridiculous creatures._

His hand froze on the latch as another image sliced mercilessly through the solitude of the early November morning.

"Damn!"

Inside the house, the hunt was on. That case of scotch had only been delivered two… three… no, two days ago.

Where was it?

It couldn't be gone already.

Haymitch waded through the empties and dirty clothes until his foot struck a cardboard box. It answered with the amiable, dull clink of bottles yet unopened.

"There you are," he mumbled playfully. "Thought you could hide, huh? Well, it's just you, me, and twelve hours till the next feeding time."

Escape and Relief joined the party, too… everyone has a few drinkin' buddies.

_ Hamitch stopped abruptly fifty feet away from the grizzly scene of his district-mate being mutilated by sickening, pink mutts. What was that droning noise? He looked around at the trees, groggy and confused._

_…what? _

_…what? _

_...what?_

_…a phone?_

_…a phone in the arena…?_

Daylight smeared watery slots under heavy eyelids.

Escape and Relief closed the door behind them as they left.

Haymitch rolled over, determined not to hear the phone. It stopped ringing for a moment and then continued. Stopped. Continued. Stopped. Continued.

Furious, he kicked at the debris littering the floor, staggered to the wall, and snatched up the receiver.

"What!" he barked at the intruder.

"Haymitch, it's Plutarch. Plutarch Heavensbee."

Silence.

Plutarch Heavensbee? Why's he calling? Wasn't he the one who'd sent him home, a useless, unreliable babysitter? The possibilities made his head ache.

Haymitch slurred into the phone, "Yeah, well, it's nice to hear your voice, but… I'm, um, kind of busy right now. Thanks for calli…"

Plutarch interrupted calmly, "Haymitch, something's come up. We want you to come back to the Capitol and offer some input."

"Who's 'we'?"

"President Paylor, me…the War Crimes Tribunal."

Tension added to the list of the morning's intruders. No, he wouldn't go. The war had gone on long enough; it was over now, and he was done. Done. No more loss. No more sacrifice. No more_ pain_.

"I'm flattered, Plutarch, really I am," said Haymitch, not bothering to mask the sarcasm. "I'm sure you can manage this… this whatever it is… without me."

"We can manage it without you. But in this case, we'd rather not." replied Plutarch flatly.

"Right. Like I said, Plutarch, I'm kind of busy. I've got these geese…"

"Haymitch!" shouted Plutarch. The normally-cool official voice, raised in anger, startled even the numb victor. "COME. TO. THE. CAPITOL."

Haymitch weighed the gravity of Plutarch's outburst in his mind during the pause that followed.

"Alright. Gimme a couple days."


	2. Chapter 2

Detego Detectum

Chapter 2

Blindsided

The train slid to a stop beside the platform. The doors at the end of each car opened in unison and Haymitch stepped down into the Capitol station. Despite the damage, the station retained its feeling of soaring space and light. The city, visible through the windows to the west, was still an impressive display of architecture, even though it was only the distance that hid the damage. "It's a shame," Haymitch thought, "that something so beautiful has to be associated with so depraved an institution."

He told Plutarch before he left that he'd send a message when he arrived at the Capitol.

"Here." he keyed into the transmitter, which they'd allowed him to keep in case of any urgent matters concerning his "charge," the Mockingjay.

"Go to the Administration Center. Give the attendant your name," was Plutarch's reply.

Haymitch considered walking the mile and a half to the new government's temporary headquarters. Then, he considered the possibility of running into anyone at all who might want to talk to him.

"Administration Center," he mumbled to the driver of the hired car.

The guard at the gate, which separated the lobby from the elevators and offices,

looked up from his panel of security monitors.

"Haymitch Abernathy. I'm here to see Plutarch Heavensbee."

"Yes, Mr. Abernathy, you're expected. They're in the President's assembly room, ninth floor. Just give your name at the posts. They'll let you through."

Haymitch arrived at the double doors of the conference room and hesitated with his hand on the latch. His brow furrowed like it always did when he knew the business at hand would be ugly.

_What am I doing here…_

He swung the door open slowly and surveyed the room. President Paylor sat at the far end of the table, one hand rested on top of the table, the other curled under her chin. She followed Haymitch with a look of leaden solemnity. Three members of the War Crimes Tribunal sat in a row on the opposite side of the table from Haymitch with the same motionless expression on their faces; he thought he could probably remember their names if he tried. Plutarch sat at opposite Paylor, and gestured to the empty chair at his right. A thick file folder lay in front of him. It was closed and unlabeled. Haymitch sat down and nodded silently at the company gathered around the table.

"Thank you for coming, Haymitch. We appreciate that you might not want to make this trip, but… this is not something we thought could be handled over the phone."

"What's going on?"

"Haymitch…" began Plutarch, staring at the table in front of him, clearly uncomfortable with beginning this discussion. "Haymitch, Effie was found in the street a couple of days after the… execution. Not far… a few blocks…"

"She's dead, right?" Haymitch interrupted, anticipating the grim news that Plutarch was trying to break and trying to speed up the next dose of anesthesia to be delivered at the local bar.

Plutarch paused. He glanced at Paylor and the others before answering.

"No, she's not dead."

Haymitch was at a loss for what might follow. "What, then?" he uttered almost inaudibly. "What do you want from me?"

President Paylor spoke up from the other end of the table. "Mr. Abernathy, please understand that nobody concerned in this discussion is under investigation or being considered for indictment… at this point. What we have is a set of circumstances that, once explained, may help us comprehend the scope of Snow's… …of Snow's undertakings." Another glance traveled around the table.

"What do you know about Effie, Haymitch?" asked Plutarch, flatly.

"What do I know about her? What do you mean what do I know about her? She was the District 12 escort. She picked names. She made schedules." Haymitch couldn't help an eye roll at that, then continued sarcastically, "She made us all behave like ladies and gentlemen. What's to know?"

"As President Paylor said, Haymitch, we just want to understand what happened. It's ok. If you knew something, fine." Plutarch raised his eyebrows and asked Haymitch, as if he expected a confession, "What do you know about Effie? Where she came from? Why she was an escort?"

Haymitch shook his head, incredulous, and whispered, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Plutarch removed a page from the file folder and placed it in front of Haymitch. He continued, "It was Coin's policy to record prison rescues; evidence against Snow's regime, I suppose. This was taken when they picked up the design team and brought them to District 13, at our request."

It was a photograph… of Effie. Her body was laid face down on a table, wrists secured at the corners by wide metal restraints, ankles strapped together and tied to the opposite corner. A sheet had been placed over half of her bruised body from the waist down; the upper body was left exposed. Blood crusted over cuts made deep into the flesh of her back and it pooled onto the table. The cuts formed the words:

LOOSEN YOUR

CORSET

AND HAVE A

DRINK

Haymitch was vaguely aware of the voices directed at him as he stared at the image, but his mind was engaged in the completion of two particular mental tasks, leaving insufficient resources for listening.

The first task involved a haphazard search through the archives of his memory, snatching up bits and pieces that he might use to piece together a connection between what he knew he'd said at some point and what he saw in this picture. The results were unsatisfactory. Search and piece as he might, he could make little sense of _those_ words on _that _back.

The second, more futile, mental task was to attach a feeling to this image that was burning itself into his brain, a feeling that he could drown and bury with the help of his reliable old friends Escape and Relief. The effort was a bit like trying on jackets at the tailor's shop.

…_How 'bout this one: Anger? No… too small. We offered up our lives to crush the perpetrators of vile acts like this. No, not enough room in anger._

_ …Ok, then maybe this one: Rage? Too big. Too big. It's just Effie. She's one of them. At some level she had it coming, maybe not like this, but Rage? No, too big._

_ …Indifference then? That's worked for you before… try it on, Indifference? No, not for this occasion. Look at her. Small. Defenseless. Alone. Indifference is... not it._

_ …Grief? Remorse? Work with me… _

_No. No! I…_

Haymitch slammed both fists onto the table, jarring the composure of the executive hosts. He stood up, walked to the door and swung it hard against the wall as he stormed out of the room.

"Should we have someone follow him?" one of the Tribunal asked.

"No," answered Plutarch. "I'll find him later."


	3. Chapter 3

Detego Detectum

Chapter 3

MP

Haymitch sat at the bar, gathering his wits. He'd been at it for the better part of three hours and had managed to soothe himself enough to think in a straight line.

_ Effie was taken prisoner by the Capitol and tortured, we knew that._

_ The interrogation wasn't pretty, no surprise._

_ Plutarch'll tell me what's going on. I'll say I don't know anything about it… her. The truth._

_ I'll go home. End of story. _

_ Everything is fine. Did I finish that case of whiskey or is it still on the kitchen floor?_

Despite the dimmed lights, Plutarch spotted Haymitch right away. It was too early for a crowd. He eased himself onto the barstool next to Haymitch and waited in silence for the bartender to notice him.

"Mr. Heavensbee… it's an honor," said the middle-aged barkeep quietly, shifting his gaze between the victor and the ex-game-maker. "What can I get you?"

"Just hot coffee, if you have it, thank you."

"Of course."

The two men sat looking into their drinks, not acknowledging one another's presence, for a quarter of an hour. The bartender poured out another for each, then receded into a corner of the room.

Plutarch began the conversation, which continued, to its end, in low, somber voices.

"I'm sorry I blindsided you with that picture. I didn't know where to start."

Haymitch continued to stare into his tumbler and replied, barely audible, "It's fine. I've seen worse."

"She's staying with me. An avox who knows her is there looking after her."

No response.

"You might not know anything about Effie that we haven't already figured out; I'm willing to believe that. Anyway, it makes no difference, officially. But out of fairness to you both, we'll fill you in, because she is very likely the reason you're sitting here today. Effie wasn't a willing participant in the games any more than you were. She's been treated for years as if she were one of Snow's creatures… that will stop now."

Plutarch took a passkey out of his jacket pocket and slid it over in front of Haymitch. "You have a room at the old Club Hotel. Be back at the administration center tomorrow at nine. Thanks for the coffee."

Without another word, Heavensbee stepped down from the stool and walked out of the bar.

The tension gripping his shoulders eased significantly as Haymitch verified that Plutarch was the only one sitting in Paylor's conference room. He hadn't been looking forward to a small crowd.

"Good morning," Plutarch greeted Haymitch. "Have a seat."

"Morning."

"Do you want coffee? Something else? We can have them bring whatever you like."

"No, thank you. I've had breakfast."

"Ok, then." The two men stared at each other in silence for a moment, before Plutarch continued. "A couple of things happened almost simultaneously while we were busy with Katniss' trial. We'll start with this." Plutarch pushed a screen tablet across the table.

Haymitch snorted a chuckle and shook his head. "I've had enough of your pictures. Just tell me."

"These aren't pictures. They're government forms. Read them. The first one is a posting application for people trying to locate friends and relatives gone missing during the war. The "seekers" give as much information as they can regarding the identity and possible whereabouts of the missing person. The forms are posted on all of the districts' sites, and then reviewed and investigated by volunteers in the districts where the person is most likely to be found. It's been a big help, both reuniting families and keeping volunteers busy until things get a bit more settled. This one caught the reviewer's attention pretty quickly."

Haymitch ventured a look at the screen. It was an electronic form with the fields already filled in. The title across the top read, "Missing Person (MP) Profile." He pulled the screen closer and read the contents of the first few fields.

MP Registered Birth Name: _Euphemia Faye MacConnaughey_

MP current age: _37_

MP age at time of disappearance: _15_

MP district of residence/origin: _District 8_

Names/nicknames by which MP is known or to which MP might respond: _ Effie, possibly Effie Trinket, Hunger Games Escort for District 12_

Circumstances of disappearance: _See attached_

The "Physical Description" fields went on to describe a woman, below average height and weight, with blue eyes, blond curly hair, and a pale complexion.

Plutarch interrupted Haymitch's reading, "This form is just a written description. The "seeker" can attach official documents, photographs, and video clips, if they're available, to positively identify the missing person and help locate them. I'll leave you alone to look at those. I have a meeting in fifteen minutes, but I'll see you at the hotel this afternoon. Shut off the screen and leave the it on the table when you're done."

Haymitch pulled the screen closer.

_Disappeared at 15 years old._

_ From District 8._

He winced and opened the first attachment. It was a scanned copy of a Birth Certificate, dated 37 years earlier and watermarked with the District 8 seal:_ female child, Euphemia Faye MacConnaughey, born alive. _She was small then, too, only 5 ½ pounds.

The second attachment was a video clip. The event was obviously filmed with older technology. A camera had been placed off to the left of the people in the recording, an audience. Three intricately upholstered chairs were set apart in front of roughly ten rows of seats. Peacekeepers lined the walls and aisles. The man in the center of the three chairs leaned on an armrest to speak to the man seated to his left, which allowed the camera to capture his face. It was President Snow. His beard and mustache were streaked with brown and gray, and he was considerably thinner, but there was no mistaking those cold, protruding eyes.

After a minute or so, a woman stepped into the space at the front of the room, probably a banquet hall. Clearly nervous, she spoke into a microphone.

"President Snow, guests, District 8 is honored by your visit. Before the mayor begins his address, we would like to welcome you by offering the performance of a Courante, known to be one of Your Excellency's favorites, by District 8's most prodigious young musician."

The middle-aged president gave a cool nod. In response to her summoning gesture, a sturdy, blond-haired man entered the room from a side door and approached the speaker. In one hand he carried a ridiculously tiny fiddle and bow. Holding on to two fingers of the man's other hand was the owner of the tiny fiddle.

The child was exquisitely beautiful. Blond curls were swept off of her forehead by a soft ribbon, and she wore the finest organdy produced by her district. She grinned, and her otherworldly blue eyes pierced the air with intelligence well beyond her four years. Her father disengaged his fingers, handed the woman the instrument, and walked back to the door.

A smile stole over President Snows face.

"President Snow, Euphemia MacConnaughey," the speaker announced. The president beckoned the child to him, and she approached fearlessly.

"Well, aren't you a pretty little trinket?" he leaned forward and mused when the girl came within a foot of his knees.

The divine little mouth pursed into a rose bud. To the dismay of all those within hearing, the toddler sternly corrected the silly man.

"I'm not a trinket. I'm Effie M'Connaughey."

Snow's laugh echoed through the hall as he pulled her onto his lap.


	4. Chapter 4

Detego Detectum

Chapter 4

Haymitch stared at the tablet-screen after the first attachment had minimized itself back into place on the electronic form. Over the years he had become accustomed to the horrors of The Hunger Games. He no longer reacted violently to the arbitrary slaughter of young people, and he was able to participate with admirable detachment.

Why, then, this burning in his gut? Why these beads of sweat moistening his brow?

President Paylor's words crept into his head.

"…_the scope of Snow's…undertakings"_

The next three video attachments were similar to the first, but in each successive taping, the "most prodigious young musician" grew taller and lovelier. In each, she was beckoned to the side of the president of Panem, greeted as his pretty little trinket, and drawn into an interview. It was clear that Effie was expected to play and be charming for her liege approximately once every three years at the commencement of Snow's official visits to her district.

The final video attached to the Missing Person's Profile was the product of a closed circuit security camera mounted on the awning of the District 8 train station. It was a fairly low-resolution, blurry recording.

A few warehouse dock-workers, curious children, and the station attendant stood on the platform. Some pointed, some crossed their arms, but all were clearly speculating as to what could have brought a Capitol train this early in June.

Suddenly, all heads turned to look off the screen to the right. Two Peacekeepers, prodding along a smaller figure, appeared within the view of the security camera and approached the sliding doors of the central car. A well-dressed, matronly woman stepped off the train to meet the guards and their charge. One of the Peacekeepers nodded to the woman.

"Euphemia MacConnaughey! Why, it's a pleasure to meet you! We've heard so much about you in the Capitol. President Snow is really quite impressed with your accomplishments, you know."

Fifteen-year-old Effie shifted her weight nervously from one sandaled foot to the other. Her baggy work pants and white blouse, knotted across her belly, made her look thin and frail amidst the more imposing company.

Muffled by the low quality of the security equipment and its distance from the speaker, Effie's voice was barely audible.

"They said my father would be here to talk to me. I… I should go find him… And then I'll bring him back."

She made a motion to quit the platform.

"Well, darling, that's hardly necessary. I'm sure he'll be along shortly." The Peacekeepers moved in closer, blocking the adolescent's retreat as the woman continued to speak. "We've come all this way with some very exciting news. Would you like to hear it?"

Effie glanced back at the two Peacekeepers and nodded apprehensively. The on-lookers stared, transfixed.

"President Snow would like you to continue your education…" the woman paused to add what was intended to be grandiosity to her voice, "…_in the Capitol_."

Mouth slightly agape, Effie stammered, "Oh… I,…"

"HEY!... Hey, there!" A man's frantic shouts once more turned all heads on the platform to the right. A man, out of breath and sweating, came into view, placing himself between the Capitol woman and Effie.

"I'm… I'm her father," he panted. "What can I do for you?"

In the background, a slight, middle-aged woman stole into the scene like a shadow. She stood behind, and to the side of, one of the Peacekeepers.

A withering scowl soured the face of the Capitol woman. It was directed at the Peacekeepers but it proclaimed to all that the arrival of Effie's parents was both unexpected and unwelcome.

"Mr. MacConnaughey," she began, "I was just informing your daughter of President Snow's request that her education be continued in the Capitol. A very generous offer, don't you agree?"

"Yes, of course." He gestured at the woman in the background. "Her mother and I are honored that President Snow should think of Effie… but she's very young, and has never been away from home." MacConnaughey straightened up, having regained his breath. "I'm sure she wouldn't measure up to the caliber of students in the Capitol."

"On the contrary, Mr. MacConnaughey. The President is a connoisseur of violin repertoire, and a man of culture. He places her abilities among the finest musicians and academicians known to be living. If she comes to the Capitol, Euphemia will have instructors worthy of her talents. She'll never know physical labor or lack. …She'll never know another Reaping. Think of that, Mr. MacConnaughey. _She'll never know another Reaping_."

Effie's father returned the woman's steady gaze, and after an uneasy pause replied, "I'm sorry. We are grateful for the President's attention, and that a district child should be noticed by him at all… but I'm afraid my daughter cannot go to the Capitol."

As the man turned to lead Effie away, the Peacekeepers seized her elbows roughly, and refused the father possession of his child. MacConnaughey spun around to face the Capitol's representative.

"And I'm afraid _you_ misunderstand, Mr. MacConnaughey. Your daughter will go to the Capitol."

Effie's father weighed his options. He glared at his stately opponent. Then, having made his decision, he turned on the Peacekeepers and attempted to wrestle his daughter's arms from their grip. Effie twisted and squirmed. The four struggled for a moment until one of the Peacekeepers lost his grip on the Effie's arm. MacConnaughey tried to drag the other Peacekeeper to the ground.

With his hands now free from the contest, the first Peacekeeper unsnapped his holster and removed his pistol. He walked up, unceremoniously, behind Mr. MacConnaughey, pressed the barrel against his skull, and fired.

The station attendant snatched up the children closest to him and disappeared inside the building. The warehouse workers, riveted to the platform, didn't move an inch. Effie's mother, who had remained cautiously to one side, now issued forth a sickening combination of a shriek and a sob. She launched herself upon the slackened form of her husband, tripping over tangled arms and legs.

From a safe distance, the camera captured the first murderous Peacekeeper as he hastened to end the badly botched job. Reaching into the heap of bodies, he grabbed the wife's hair, yanked her head backward, and fired a single shot into the top of her skull.

The Peacekeepers disentangled themselves, and stood apart, surveying the platform. The Capitol woman made a sign to someone inside the train car, and then to the Peacekeepers, themselves.

Effie sat in a widening pool of blood on the platform. The camera captured three quarters of her spattered face. Her eyes focused on the air twelve inches from her nose; they registered nothing. There was no reaction as the Peacekeepers lifted her by her armpits and dragged her onto the train.

Static crackled on the screen for a few seconds before the video attachment shrank itself back into a corner of the screen.

There was no need to try anything on today. Blind fury unleashed itself inside Haymitch's head. In one savage motion he snatched up the tablet and hurled it against the wall, sending shards of plastic flying in every direction. He bolted out of the building and ran down the street. Escape and Relief tried to catch up, but they knew it was hopeless.


	5. Chapter 5

Detego Detectum

Chapter 5

Zero Day

A booted foot rolled Haymitch over onto his back. The ex-mentor detected the smell of coffee just before a cold, wet towel dropped onto his face.

"Get up."

Plutarch.

"Honestly, Haymitch, I thought you'd be able to man-up for a couple of days. Get off the floor before Housekeeping puts you out with the trash."

Haymitch pulled the towel off of his face, and looked around. It appeared that he had missed, or fallen off of, the sofa. The number of bottles that he could see from where he lay surprised even him. _What started this?_

"…_Son of a_…" Haymitch whispered, propping himself up on an elbow to see if he could, indeed, get up. The room spun.

Plutarch placed a mug on the coffee table in front of his wretched friend, and sat down in an armchair nearby to wait. It took a concerted effort, but after about five minutes Haymitch had pulled himself, mug in hand, onto the sofa. He sipped with his eyes closed, willing the sickening headache away.

"You owe me a tablet," said Plutarch, coolly.

"I didn't like your picture shows," was the slurred reply.

"Well, you're in luck because I'm here to _tell_ you the rest, and then you can think about what you ought to do."

Haymitch would have scowled if his face didn't hurt so much. "There isn't any ought… anything I should," he struggled to order the words in his disordered head. "I'm not obligated… to ought …to do anything."

Plutarch ignored the comment and began, "It took almost five years to get Effie to cooperate. She wasn't supposed to witness her parents' murder, and when it became clear that it would be a long time before she would serve any of Snow's… purposes, they turned her over, for the most part, to the care of avoxes."

Haymitch continued to slouch and sip. Plutarch went on.

"Interesting people, avoxes. They were supposed to be isolated by their silence," Plutarch chuckled, "but it turns out they'd developed a quite a sophisticated language; they used signals to talk to each other and pass along what they knew. We thought they were either serving us or staring at the floor, but they weren't. They were watching, and remembering.

"We found two of them that were assigned to live with Effie at separate times. One of them has been willing to talk to us. During her first few years in the Capitol, Effie would fight, refuse to eat, and beg to be let into the Games. She attempted suicide four times. Every time, they'd put her back together, good as new, and tell her not to bother because if Snow wanted her alive, she would live… it was a crazed, backwards battle of wills.

"Finally, Snow decided he'd had enough. Effie's punishment wasn't death, though; it was life. Snow, himself, came to see her when she was almost nineteen. He told her that she would have it her way. She would be in the Hunger Games… _all _of them_._"

_Haymitch had heard that hallucinations sometimes followed the overuse of alcohol. For him this usually meant ghosts and re-living the past. Today, though, the movie showing at the bottom of the coffee mug was something he had never seen before. He was reminded, once again, of the little animated films he'd seen as a child. He saw a forest path that divided abruptly into two narrower paths. Planted inside the "V" formed by this division was a signpost, one of those made by sawing off the ends of planks to form arrows that point in either direction. On the sign pointing to the right was the word, "GEESE". The sign pointing to the left was marked "OUGHT". _

_On either side of the "geese" path was newly mown, green grass, studded with tulips and warmed by a lemon-yellow sun with a beaming smile. He could hear birds chirping from that general direction. The "ought" path was shrouded by the shadows of gnarled, overgrown trees. Nailed to the trunks of the sinister-looking oaks were warnings painted onto fading wooden signs. They read things like "DANGER: COMMONALITIES," "NO CONTEMPT BEYOND THIS POINT," and "TURN BACK BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE." _

_Haymitch felt himself oddly attracted to the left path. He was magnetized by it and the risk it represented. He couldn't look away as he was drawn, spellbound…_

"Here," Plutarch snatched the mug out of his hands, "You should have another cup."

_Trees don't have warnings for nothing_, Haymitch thought. _Resist_.

He whispered, motionless on the sofa, "What does any of this have to do with me?"

"Exactly." Plutarch shoved the refilled mug back into Haymitch's hands. "Aside from the obvious, this: Effie let you out of the Capitol the day Quarter Quell arena collapsed."

Haymitch and Plutarch stared at each other for a moment. Then, Haymitch's face twisted into a look of incredulity.

"She what?"

Plutarch spoke slowly and clearly, "When the arena's dome was destroyed, Effie triggered an exploit from a laptop inside the penthouse. She shut down the Peacekeepers' central dispatch system…" Plutarch leaned forward, "… _so_… _you_…_could_…_escape_."

More staring.

"I don't understand what you're saying. I _left _that day. Nobody let me out."

"Right. The 75th Hunger Games arena is obliterated by _your_ tribute…on _live television_. And _you_, Haymitch Abernathy, march out of the penthouse, stroll a mile and half across the Capitol, and catch a hovercraft as if you were just out to get a sandwich?"

Haymitch's temper flared, aggravated by his now splitting headache. "That was the plan! I was _supposed_ to go to the hovercraft and get to Thirteen. It was arranged… by _you_, if memory serves! Effie… she didn't even know what was going on!"

"She _did_ know, Haymitch. I mean, you're right, she was not one of us. She wasn't in on the plan, but she knew something was going on. She knew for a long time. Listen to me," Plutarch ran his hand across his forehead. "I know how Effie was…acted. Think about it. What choice did she have? She was watched every second of the day for _more than twenty years_. They wouldn't even let her die at her own hand."

Haymitch shook his head at the ceiling. _GEESE!_ he thought. _Choose the GEESE!_

Plutarch continued his merciless disclosure.

"Effie knows how to write computer code. In fact, she was routinely disciplined as an adolescent for hacking into her school's servers to play practical jokes. We found that out from her District 8 records. You saw on the tablet that she was an intelligent child. That's why she's here. Apparently, she was mischievous, too. Well, it must have been a couple of years ago that Effie watched a Peacekeeper submit a report for an 'incident' on his communications device. It was about the same time that the civil unrest began in 10 and our team started to plan. She knew that she could never be a party to what was brewing without compromising the very scheme that could end her own nightmare. But that one Peacekeeper showed her how she might help without anyone's knowledge.

"It was standard procedure for Peacekeepers to report incidents, _such as the disorderly conduct of drunken Mentors_, to a central dispatch office not far from the train station. The system electronically stamped each report with the Peacekeeper's ID and his location, which was calculated by a geocoding application. If no further action was required, the incident report was simply archived in the day's folder. Effie realized that she could piggy-back a dormant virus to one of those incident reports, and trigger it at some point in the future, when it would be useful. Nobody would question, or even look at, the infected report, because you, Haymitch, made them so very routine.

"As soon as Effie saw the effect of Katniss' arrow on the force field during the last Quarter Quell, and you ran out of the penthouse, she knew it was time. She triggered the dormant bug the same way it was embedded it in the system, by using a Peacekeeper's report ID. Less than ten seconds after Effie triggered the exploit, every monitor in the central dispatch office went black. Then, the names of every tribute ever reaped flashed onto the screens one after the other, locking up the system until the last name, Peeta Mellark, appeared. If the dispatcher cut the power to the machine and rebooted, the bug would start over. Think about it, Haymitch. There have been 1,800 tributes, so there was no coordinated central command in the Capitol for _thirty minutes_ after the arena went down. You might have been able to get out by yourself, but Effie's little caper guaranteed it because nobody knew to look for you.

"We've consulted Beetee, and he said that this type of computer attack is nothing new. It's called a Zero Day Exploit. Someone, a hacker, exploits a weakness or access point in a computer system, and by the time the weakness is discovered, it's too late; there are 'zero days' to plug the hole. The only unusual thing in this case, he said, is that the bugs don't usually lie dormant for more than a week or so."

Haymitch looked genuinely stunned. Plutarch was satisfied that the enormity of Effie's plight was finally sinking in.

"There's one other thing you should know. The geocoding program that told the dispatchers each Peacekeeper's location uses the sender's device to locate the incident and time-stamp it. When the technicians at central dispatch backtracked to find the trigger message, they traced it to Effie's laptop. Beetee said that anyone who could pull off this kind of hack would know that… Effie knew that they would find her…and kill her."


	6. Chapter 6

Detego Detectum

Chapter 6

"…she knew that they would find her… and kill her."

This time, when Haymitch's mind railed against the images that Plutarch's revelations conjured up, he had the wherewithal, and the hangover, to remain still.

_The coffee mug breathed a sigh of relief._

"They thought she was one of us."

Plutarch nodded his assent.

Haymitch fixed his eyes on Plutarch's, and the latter was struck by both the lucidity and pain in the gaze of the man opposite. It was not usually this easy to read him.

"They thought she was one of us," Haymitch repeated in a whisper.

Plutarch regarded his friend for a moment before he continued quietly, "It was logical for the Capitol to suspect Effie. Her arrest wasn't that surprising. But… her condition when they brought her to Thirteen, Haymitch… what they did to her… …it was vile. The severity didn't make sense until we started sorting through records and had found out what she'd done. They thought you'd planned the hack together. They thought you'd abandoned her, and so the interrogators tried to use you against her... to break her …to get information."

Haymitch remained unmoved.

"They didn't get any information from her; they couldn't. All they got was the most stubborn silence ever carried on by an ill-tempered woman."

Two knowing smirks emerged on the faces of the men, easing the strain caused by Plutarch's poignant revelation.

_The coffee cup, though, was not fooled by smirks. It feared for its porcelain life. The pressure building up in its possessor's hand betrayed an internal struggle that threatened to send it flying across the room. _

_For twenty-five years Haymitch had swallowed oppression and the murder of children, washed down, of course, by an enormous quantity of liquor. He had witnessed the beginning and end of a bloody war with the admirable objectivity of an officer who understood the "greater good." _

_Why, then, why did the suffering of this one, small, incomprehensibly irritating and absurd woman drive him to such madness that no amount of liquor and denial could touch it?_

_Why was the lessening of his own pain suddenly, and apparently inextricably, tied to the lessening of hers?_

_The coffee cup knew._

_Plutarch thought he knew._

_Haymitch was not quite ready to know._

"Who's looking for her?" asked Haymitch.

"Excuse me?"

"The Missing Persons form. Who's looking for Effie?"

"Ah," Plutarch shook his head, "the M.P. form was filled out for the benefit of Effie's grandmother, but she died before it was even reviewed. There are a couple of cousins in Eight, but they don't remember her... only the stories. They helped send the form because they thought that knowing that Effie was still alive would comfort the old woman. I've spoken to them both, but they're trying to pick up the pieces in the aftermath of a war, not look after a convalescing stranger. I let them know how to reach me and said that I would let them know if Effie left the Capitol."

_There had to be some way out…_

"Why didn't she speak up when we were in Thirteen… when she was away from Snow and the Capitol?"

_It was a fair attempt._

"Effie's position didn't change by coming to Thirteen. Coin was not any more sympathetic than Snow; that was made immediately clear to the entire design team. Katniss, the Mockingjay, had to be prepared for the public execution, and the team that was so "generously" spared was going to get her ready. The medics in Thirteen strongly advised against a work schedule in Effie's case. She had suffered head injuries, among other things, and was supposed to be kept quiet and still. But Effie's recovery did not concern Coin in the least. She ordered the medics to make her "functional" and went on with her plan.

"At the time of the execution, Effie was weak and probably more than a little disoriented. She ran when she saw Katniss shoot Coin, probably an effort to avoid the next tyrant. As I said before, though, she didn't get very far. A man and his wife found her lying unconscious in the street. They carried her into a local clinic where they knew enough about who she was to get a message to me… and, here we are."

Despite what Plutarch read on Haymitch's face, he was wise enough to know that forcing his hand at this point was in nobody's best interest. He rose to leave. "I'll need a statement within the next couple of days. Come to the Admin. Center when you're ready."

Haymitch stopped him with a stammered question, "How… …how is she?"

"Effie? She sleeps a lot. She gets headaches. They say that if she rests, though, there'll be no permanent physical damage. Clementia, the avox, says there are scars… but I haven't seen them."

Just before closing the door to Haymitch's hotel room, Plutarch turned and added, "I live in the Copia Tower, ninth floor."

_His heart acquiesced._

_He set the coffee mug noiselessly on the table and headed toward the shower._

_He knew where she was. _

_He pictured her sleeping._

_Safe._


	7. Chapter 7

Detego Detectum

Chapter 7

From her seat at the dining room table, Effie scanned the peaks that formed the west ridge surrounding the Capitol. It was a clear morning, and the sunlight illuminating the faces of the mountains created an illusion that the range was nearer than it was. She thought about how it might feel to stand on a rocky ledge in that sunlight, an icy breeze lifting her clothes and hair away from her skin, refreshing and clean.

The combined dining and living areas of Plutarch's apartment, where she sat, were spacious and open. They were painted and upholstered in the same shades of blue, gray, and white visible through the picture windows encircling the rooms. Anyone visiting would have been struck by how well the designers had incorporated the height and expanse of the view into the décor. But today, despite the ample serenity of the common area, Effie felt the apartment to be stuffy. She woke this morning feeling warm and a little dizzy.

Clementia, an avox who had worked in the Tribute Center, placed her communication tablet on the table next to Effie. She had typed in the words, "Eat your breakfast. It will help."

Wordlessly, Effie shifted her gaze from the window to the table. She took a sip of the milky coffee and contemplated her yet untouched plate. The last few weeks had taught her that Clementia was right; she would feel better if she ate, but doing so without an appetite had become more of a chore than an act of self-care. Effie procrastinated by watching the avox put clean napkins away in the buffet drawers.

The door buzzer sounded from across the room. In unison, the two women looked up toward the source of the noise, then at each other. Messengers and visitors frequently appeared at Plutarch's door, but they always seemed to know when the Communications Secretary would be at home. It was too early for administrative calls.

Effie shrugged. Clementia advanced to answer the door. Since the interior of the foyer was not visible from the dining-room table, Effie continued her breakfast-avoidance and silent contemplation while waiting for the avox to return with an unofficial report of the day's first business; they'd made a habit of chronicling the arrivals and departures to the apartment.

When Plutarch had first installed Effie and Clementia in the guest suite of his home, the former had cringed at the idea of a caregiver. The avox's presence would require human interaction, something that the tormented former-escort had wished to avoid, however minimal. Mercifully, though, Clementia seemed to understand, and rendered her services unobtrusively until Effie began to find her shadowy companionship reassuring. It was reassuring, thought Effie; she and Cementia helped each other pass one empty day after another as spectators, peripheral observers of Plutarch Heavensbee's new official life. There was little else to do between headaches and naps.

Effie turned to see if Clementia was on her way back to the dining room. She sucked in a gasp, startled by what she saw. Haymitch Abernathy, dressed in dark gray trousers, a vest, and shirtsleeves, stood like a statue in the middle of the room; Clementia was nowhere to be seen.

He was staring at her. This was nothing new, though. It was reasonable for the people who'd known her as an escort to study her unadorned features when they met now, taking a moment to recognize her face, undisguised by paint, and her figure without the taffeta and heels that had deceptively added height and volume to her diminutive frame. She shifted her gaze around the room never having quite figured out where to look during these interludes.

One minute... two minutes… three minutes passed and Haymitch continued to stand like a block of stone, silent, his eyes locked onto Effie's face. She began to feel uncomfortable and met his stare, opening her mouth to speak. Nothing came out at first, though, but a couple of shallow and shaky breaths.

"Haymitch," she whispered, not sure if he could hear her; he still stood a good twenty feet away.

The man's face blackened without warning into an expression of unmistakable anger. She had seen it many times before.

"You…" he spat between clenched teeth.

Effie's face reddened with a feverish flush. She was unprepared for this. He must have found out what she'd done and it had made him furious. She hadn't considered that possibility. She hadn't considered _any_ possibilities. The past six weeks of conscious thought had been dedicated to simple existence. Avoiding all reflection on the past and future had been the kindest act of self-preservation she could manage. Her head began to swim with the realization that Haymitch had come suddenly to exact an account for her meddling in his rebellion. Memories and their emotional baggage began to flood her mind. Haymitch Abernathy was provoked, and she braced herself.

He approached her with quick, determined steps, never breaking his stare, still speaking through his teeth.

"How could you interfere?!" he growled. He was standing right in front of her now, towering over her bare-footed form. "Nobody asked you to help!"

Effie's hand flew to her mouth, her face contorted with pain, and tears began to dampen her cheeks.

_Where did this come from? I won't be able to handle this, she thought. I can't…_

He roughly grabbed her wrist and yanked it away from her face. Her body shook.

_What is happening?_

"Are you listening to me?! How could you put yourself in that position? They… they would have…"

Haymitch's voice cracked, "…killed you."

Effie's eyes were closed and dizziness blurred her perception, but she noticed a growing sensation of being squeezed, constricted.

_Was he trying to smother her?_

Haymitch had wound both arms around Effie's back, and he held her ferociously against his chest.

"They would have killed you… they would have…" he choked repeatedly into her ear, his face now pressed against the side of her head. "Don't ever do anything like that again, you hear me?"

Effie was overwhelmed, choking on sobs, and still barely aware of what was happening. But as he held her, Haymitch himself began to wake up to the scene. He had lost it and scared her.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he whispered. "Don't cry. I'm sorry."

He looked at her face, loosening his grip a bit. Little beads of sweat had formed on her nose and forehead, pink blotches colored her otherwise bloodless complexion.

"I'm sorry." Haymitch pressed his lips to her cheeks, her forehead. Her skin was burning up.

…_something Plutarch had said… _

…_head injuries…kept still…rest…_

Haymitch scooped up Effie's wavering form and carried her to the sofa in the living room, and set her down.

"Hey," he called out, crossing the room to the door behind which the avox had disappeared. It was the kitchen, and Clementia stood just inside with her arms crossed.

"I…" Haymitch exhaled noisily through his nose, "I've upset her. She doesn't look well."

Clementia coolly nodded her head and brushed past Haymitch. When she reached the sofa, she removed the com-tablet from the wide pocket in her tunic and began to type.

"She doesn't eat. Then she gets dizzy. Wait here. I'm not surprised."

Clementia returned from the kitchen with a cold, wet towel, which she handed to Haymitch. He wiped Effie's face, carefully replacing a curl that had stuck to her temple.

"Stop it. It's cold," Effie murmured as she pushed the towel and Haymitch's hand away.

Haymitch released a soft sigh of relief, leaned over and, just before he kissed Effie's lips, he whispered, "I'm a beast."

"I know," Effie grinned. "That's what makes it interesting."

Clementia clattered the untouched breakfast plate onto the coffee table in front of the sofa. She tossed the com-tablet onto Effie's belly.

"Eat your breakfast. It will help."


	8. Chapter 8

Detego Detectum

Chapter 8

"Good afternoon, Mr. Abernathy," said the doorman. "You'll find the ladies in the garden on the roof. Press 'R' in the elevator."

Haymitch nodded his thanks.

Upon reaching the top floor, the elevator doors opened onto the roof of the tower. Teak and granite planters lined a maze of walkways that ultimately led to the center of the garden. It was still early spring, and although the air was damp and smelled of moss and soil, only a few seedlings were visible in the planters against the building walls. The landscape designers still had a month to plan.

Haymitch followed the closest path to the patio at the center of the garden. A tray accommodating tea things sat on the table in one corner of the enclosure. Two low, sloped lounge chairs, made of the same teak wood as the planters, were placed to take full advantage of the late afternoon sun. Cementia, the avox, sat with her head bent over her ever-present tablet, reading. Effie sat motionless in the opposite chair, arms on their respective rests. Her head lay on the chair's back, tilted away from the approaching man.

Clementia stood up and confronted Haymitch, though she had given no previous sign that she'd detected his presence. She turned the tablet around so he could see what she'd keyed.

"I'll take the tray down. She's tired. Try not to irritate her."

Haymitch's mouth twisted into a wry grin, and Clementia turned to remove the tea set. The victor stood where he was, several feet from Effie's chair, even after the avox had disappeared behind the elevator doors. He regarded Effie's pink nose and cheeks and considered trying to convince her to move into the shade. Then he thought about Clementia's welcome, and he remembered that his directives had never been well received by anyone, so he continued to stand, shifting his gaze from the garden fixtures to the mountains beyond. Effie sensed a change in the company and rolled her head to meet the newcomer's gaze. Since Haymitch's eyes now roamed the landscape, it was her turn to observe his features. His expression was serious, but not angry. Neither spoke.

After several minutes of silence, Haymitch bent over the chair recently occupied by Clementia, and pulled it near to, and facing, Effie. He sat down, hands clasped, elbows on knees, staring at the small space between their feet. Effie fixed her eyes on Haymitch's face, but her own remained unexpressive.

Without lifting his eyes, Haymitch loosened his hands, reached across, and very gently brushed Effie's fingers with the tips of his own. As tender a gesture as it was, it betrayed some hesitation and uncertainty. Knowing this to be the case, he knit his brow and returned his hands to their previous position. He looked up for an instant but could read nothing on Effie's face. She still looked at him fixedly, but she did not respond.

Softly, Haymitch broke the silence, "I want you to come home with me."

They now locked eyes, but Effie's face was still unreadable. Each met the solemn countenance of the other, but Haymitch was much more the uncomfortable of the pair. He had never realized the extent to which Effie's reactions cued his own. He'd never had to pry a response from her, and he wasn't sure how to do it without provoking her.

"Did you hear what I said?"

Effie whispered, "Yes," but her expression did not change.

They continued to stare at each other. Haymitch was aware that he could never make this an attractive offer. He hadn't planned it that way.

_I want you to come home with me._

Had he said, "_If I tried to leave you here again, I would burn alive before I got to the station,_" it would have been much nearer the truth. But both Haymitch and Effie had spent many long years masking and drowning the truth, so it was difficult to recognize, much less declare it openly.

_I want you to come home with me._

This was a simple statement of fact. It was what he wanted, he had said it, and now it was incumbent upon her to respond… to rebuke …to agree…

Effie said nothing. She focused intently on Haymitch's eyes, but it was impossible to read her thoughts.

Haymitch began to feel frustrated. "I know I haven't given you any reason to… to…" He wasn't sure what he wanted to say. "I'm not like Plutarch. I…"

Effie interrupted him with a voice that conveyed something between irritation and desperation. "I know, by now, who you are and who you aren't… … and that's a lot more than I can say… …for myself." Her breath had become ragged, but she did not cry. She pressed the palms of her hands into her forehead and closed her eyes. "I couldn't tell you who you'd be bringing home," she muttered.

_It's not me she's afraid of_, thought Haymitch,

He shook his head, reached out, and took hold of Effie's wrist. He drew her arm, followed by the rest of her, toward himself and said, "You can't be any worse than me."

Effie did not resist the pull or the assertion. "You're right," she agreed with a pained grin.

Haymitch settled her onto his lap, leaned back against the chair and put his booted feet up onto the newly vacant chair. Effie wrapped one arm around his neck, tucked one between them, and buried her nose in the collar of his shirt.

The quiet abandon of this embrace overwhelmed Haymitch's senses for a moment. She was warm. Her skin and hair were achingly soft. The weight of her body was soothing, its lightness intoxicating.

The truth became a bit more recognizable.

"Come home with me," he whispered. "We'll be horrible together."

Effie huffed a quiet laugh. "We'll be something," she murmured, just before she fell asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Detego Detectum

Chapter 9

Effie was comforted, rather than not, by the sparse furnishings of Haymitch's living room. An abundance of personal belongings in the room would have done little more than call attention to her position as a newly arrived stranger.

She observed that the house had recently been cleaned, an unexpected, but not unwelcome, curiosity. Some sort of soap or chemical detergent scent mixed with the smoke lingering in the room; the flue had stuck when Haymitch built a fire in the fireplace. The tans and browns of the oak and leather in the room took on a warm glow from the little flames, and through the window Effie could see long shadows reaching across the lawn.

Haymitch, having disappeared into the next room to turn on the furnace, returned to find Effie still standing next to her bag staring into the fire.

"You ok?" he asked, stepping over the bag to face her.

Effie nodded, still gazing past him at the fire.

"Well, you look tired. That was a long walk. Why don't you lay down on the sofa for a while?"

Effie smiled softly, turned, and sank into a corner of the sofa from which she could still see the fire. She pulled off her suede boots and drew her feet up onto the leather. Haymitch spotted a folded blanket, which he didn't remember owning, on a nearby chair and brought it over to the sofa.

"I'll see what we've got to eat."

Haymitch picked up Effie's bag as she lay back onto the cushions. His own satchel sat at the bottom of the stairs. He grabbed it with his free hand and headed upstairs to put them both away in the bedroom. When he reached the landing, though, he halted, not yet sure enough of the situation to march straight into his room with Effie's things. His brow creased, and he left both bags at the top of the stairs.

Just as he descended, Haymitch heard the back door open and click shut. He met Hazelle Hawthorne at the entry between the kitchen and front hallway.

"I was just walkin' back home with some soup, and I saw your chimney. I wasn't sure what time that train was comin' in. You can see I've tidied up like you asked, but I think I forgot Posy's little quilt. I was mending it and… "

Hazelle pushed past Haymitch and stepped into the living room for the quilt. She stopped short halfway across the floor, startled.

Effie had fallen asleep almost immediately. Having gathered the worn fabric of the coverlet in her fists she had rolled over and was facing the back of the sofa. Her cotton top had worked its way up a bit and left the skin on her back exposed as she curled up against the leather. Hazelle padded silently over to the sofa, her eyes intent on the sleeping woman.

"My _word!_" she whispered, her hand now hovering above the still angry, red scars visible on Effie's back. She moved up toward the end of the sofa, inclined over the strange figure's head to see if she recognized her.

"It's that Reapin' woman from the Capitol!" she turned to Haymitch and hissed. "What on earth have they done ...one of their _own_? …are those words? "

Haymitch knew that he would have to explain Effie's presence eventually, but he had not yet thought about how he could do it while preserving her dignity, or at least, her privacy. He scowled and exhaled loudly through his nose.

"She's not from the Capitol. She's from Eight," he whispered savagely. "They took her as a child, murdered her family, and forced her into the games. She turned on them before the war, and they didn't take it kindly… …Stop me if this sounds familiar."

Effie stirred, stretching a leg out from underneath Posy's quilt. Haymitch quickly moved to the sofa alongside Hazelle. He placed his hand on the top of Effie's head, bent over, and whispered into her ear, "Shhh… go to sleep. We'll have dinner in a little while. Shhh…" Effie's breathing became even once again.

Hazelle stood speechless. Her mouth hung open and she was shaking her head slowly back and forth. Almost inaudibly, she said, adding weight to every word, "We will never see the end of this ugliness, will we?"

Haymitch made no reply, and the two from District Twelve stood and stared at each other for a long while.

Hazelle broke the silence. "Well, I never thought I'd see you whisperin' tenderness into a woman's ear, Haymitch Abernathy, but a nurse you are not. You let me know what you need me to do and I'll be around. Feed her that soup; she looks like she's been dragged backward through a bush."

Hazelle pulled her sweater closed and headed back toward the door. Haymitch followed her to see her out.

"Better see to those birds, too, or that'll be the next rebellion."

* * *

_Twenty-three heads tilted on long, graceful necks to listen as corn mix filled the hopper with a soft "hisssss"._

Haymitch latched the gate and leaned against the coop to watch the flock.

"What's this?"

Effie had appeared noiselessly, hooked her fingers over the rail, and peered over the fence.

"Geese." Haymitch smirked.

One particularly ornery hen approached the pair and snapped at Effie's knee through the wire mesh.

"Ow!" She glared at the animal. The bird tossed its head a couple of times as if proud of its accomplishment. "We'll have that one with plums," Effie murmured rubbing the site of the attack.

"Not today. Today there's soup,"

They watched as the grain in the tin hopper disappeared, and one by one the birds waddled away. Haymitch wrapped both arms around Effie's shoulders and the two started across the yard through the cool evening mist. "I'd make friends with them if I were you. There's not much else to do around here."

Effie tilted her head to meet Haymitch's gaze from the center of his embrace. One end of her lips curled into a mischievous grin and she replied, "I'm sure we can think of something else..."

THE END


End file.
